


Portugal

by youngdarling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sneaky Sherlock, it's all Portugal's fault, oblivious!John, sappy sap sap sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngdarling/pseuds/youngdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John "accidentally" get married, and John doesn't freak out at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portugal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yaycoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY! :D

 

 

**PORTUGAL**

 

 

John Watson strides purposefully down the street, papers in hand. For once, the sun is out, shining brightly around perfect, billowy clouds, but he can't enjoy it. John Watson is  _hacked off_.  
   

He offers a sullen, "Hullo," to Mrs Hudson, who stands in the hallway, mixing bowl and spoon in hand, looking at John oddly.  
 

"John, are you--?"  
 

"Quite all right, Mrs Hudson," John replies, in a voice that suggests he is anything but.  
 

He hits the stairs with a loud stomp, closing the door firmly-- _very_ firmly--behind him. " _SHERLOCK_!"  
 

Sherlock pokes his head round the kitchen doorway, smiling in a way that means he knows he's been caught. "Yes, John?"  
 

"When you said you didn't speak Portuguese--how _much_ of a lie was that?"  
 

Sherlock turns the blow torch off--best to be safe when John is in a mood--and tries that smiling thing again. "Enough to order wine, ask directions, that sort of thing. Nothing major."  
 

John steps nearer. "Enough to understand the certificates we signed?"  
 

"Well, that depends," says Sherlock, setting down his eyeball (well, not _his_ eyeball) and turning his full attention to John.  
 

"Because I just got back from the Portuguese embassy, just to make sure everything was in order, and it is, but--funny thing--" He pauses, stroking his chin as though considering the matter.  
 

"Yes, John?" Sherlock tries again.  
 

"Between the document that we signed promising not to return for three years because _someone_ \--"  
 

"Now, that was not a stolen gun, John. It was _your_ gun. I was merely borrowing it."  
 

John continues, unfazed. "-- _someone_ decided to go haring off in pursuit of a jewel thief with a _stolen fucking gun_ , and the document that promised us safe passage home _despite_ one of us running off _with_ said stolen gun--"  
 

"Borrowed," Sherlock tries.  
 

"You didn't have my permission. You _stole_ it," John says in a brook-no-arguments tone. For once, Sherlock does what John wants. For once, Sherlock shuts the hell up. "Do you _know_ what was between those documents?"  
 

When Sherlock furrows his eyebrows, feigning ignorance, John continues, "How long have you known?"  
 

"I didn't figure it out until last week. Mycroft specialises in Portuguese. I only speak French, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Dutch, Danish, Zulu, Afrikaans, and just enough Latin to get by."  
 

"In where, ancient Rome?" John flings the papers down, collapsing onto the couch.  
 

Sherlock ignores that, leaning against the doorframe, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
 

"We're _married_ , Sherlock! Do you realise what that means?!"  
 

"That we are accorded the right to a shared abode, shared finances, shared personal data, shared lives, and all other designations thereto," Sherlock says, rattling it off.  
 

"It means a _hell of a lot_ more than that," John huffs out. "How did it even get mixed in there, anyway?"  
 

"I may have gotten my verb conjugations a little mixed up," Sherlock admits. "We already share all those things, so what's the problem?"

"The  _problem_?" John breathes. "The bloody _problem_ \--" But he can't come up with anything. Sherlock is right. They already share their lives, a home, leftovers, and sometimes even toothpaste. They  _are_ already married. Except for the sex part. And for John, that's a big part of a commitment like this.

 

"Sex, Sherlock," John manages, finally, awkwardly.

Sherlock exhales slowly and sits back in his chair. "Oh. I didn't give that enough thought, I suppose."

"Either had I, until...just now," John says very softly. He blinks, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Doesn't matter. It's fine."

"We'll get it annulled tomorrow," Sherlock agrees.

 

 John excuses himself to go upstairs, and pretends he doesn't recognise the pang in his chest.

.:.

But they don't get it annulled the next day, or the next day, or the next. On the fifth day, they do nab a double murder suspect with almost perfect precision, Sherlock hopping nimbly over the fence and John racing round to they other side so they can pin him down in tandem. Lestrade catches up, out of breath.

"Brilliant," he says, leaning over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Thank God for the two of you, or I'd have been demoted so many times I'd be back on traffic duty."

John keeps the suspect pinned down, knee jabbing into his lower back, ignoring his protests, until Lestrade has him handcuffed. As the last police light recedes, they start the walk back to the nearest Tube station. It's a bit of a hike, maybe twenty minutes, but somehow the decision to walk to the Tube instead of calling for a taxi is made wordlessly.

They do that often, John realises.  Sherlock throws a pen across the room, he catches it. He starts in on a theory and Sherlock finishes it, no matter how insane it might be. John puts up with Sherlock's many oddities, and Sherlock handles John's still-occasional night terrors with a quiet, soothing calmness that no one else has been able to master.

By this point, they've reached the Barnet Tube station, and John pauses at the top of the stairs.

"Hm," he says.

"What?" Sherlock calls back up from the bottom of the staircase.

John looks at him, luminescent under the streetlamps, hair askew, a small scrape visible high on the side of his face. He descends the stairs until they are, more or less, face to face. He takes his thumb, wiping away the blood at Sherlock's cheekbone.

"Just a tiny scrape," John says. "No need for stitches. Some bacitracin wouldn't hurt, though."

"You're the doctor," Sherlock grins.

"Come on," John says. "Let's go home."

.:.

John is nearly asleep, only the tiniest sliver of moonlight shining in through his curtains, when he hears a creak on the floor. He's up with his SIG pointed at the door before he realises who it is.

" _Jesus Christ,_ Sherlock. You can't just come sneaking up on people like that."

"Well, not _you_ , obviously. Still a soldier."

"Always a soldier," John says, but he's grinning as he puts the gun down. "What's wrong? Case?"

"No." Sherlock pauses, as if unsure what to do. John figures something must be _very_  wrong, because Sherlock always knows what to do.

"So then...?" In the moonlight, John can see gossamer patches of Sherlock's pale, pale skin: his neck, his wrists, his feet.  They are revelations, invitations. He swallows, hard. John has been wanting this for months; maybe longer. He'd dreamt of it, once, intensely so. But if this is going to be it, if this is going to be the night...oh, he wants it to be...he wants it to be... He stops thinking. His mouth is dry. 

"I was thinking we might try...an experiment."

John shifts. "What sort of experiment?"

"Can I...sleep in your bed tonight?"

"Sleep?" John clarifies.

"Sleep. We _are_ married, after all. It's not unheard of for married couples to share a bed."

Sherlock makes a good point. Pulse still thrumming, John shifts over a bit. "Come on, then." He's surprised at how confident he sounds.

Sherlock pads bare-foot across the floor, slides his robe off, and places it carefully at the foot of the bed. He moves, almost soundlessly, until he's lying at the very edge of one side of the bed. "Is that your side?" he asks.

John turns and looks at Sherlock, just looks, for a moment. At last, he manages, "Yes."

"Good. Because this is mine."

"Good," John smiles. He pillows one hand under his head and gently reaches out to tuck away a stray curl of Sherlock's hair. "That okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispers, eyes wide and bright, reaching out to cup his palm and his long, thin fingers around John's face, temple to jawbone. He feels warm. John can feel Sherlock's pulse through two of his fingers. When he moves his hand, it's to trace a small scar at John's temple, and the curve of his jaw.

"John," he starts, the ragged edges of desire and panic blurring together in his voice.

"It's okay," John promises, as much to Sherlock as to himself. "Not tonight." No, there's still too much to resolve. John will unravel it all, and then he'll unravel Sherlock.

John turns over. "Come here," he says in an almost-whisper after a few moments.

"Hm?" Sherlock mumbles sleepily.

John backs up toward Sherlock until they're pressed together, back to chest, lower legs entangled. John leaves just enough space between them, because even this is turning him on, and he doesn't want to scare Sherlock away. He's frightened enough for the both of them.

He stills his breathing till it's even with Sherlock's, and falls asleep to the soft feeling of Sherlock's finger idly tracing the inside of his wrist.

.:.

John knew it was coming, as surely as he knew it was going to rain Tuesday afternoon (a slight pang in the left temple). A tap on the door of their flat while Sherlock's out at Barts. It isn't difficult to guess that Mycroft will be standing on the other side, umbrella in his hand, artful smile on his face.

"Can I invite you in?" John asks, sure of the answer already.

"Oh, no, Dr Watson, I insist you join me at my club."

And so John slides into the plush leather of Mycroft's car, and Mycroft slides in beside him. Thankfully, it's a silent, brief journey. Mycroft leads him through the labyrinthine hallways of the centuries-old building to his office, where tea and biscuits are already laid out.

"Tea, Doctor?"

"No," John replies, a bit shortly, ready to get down to business. He takes a seat in the brass-studded mahogany armchair directly across from Mycroft.

"Mm," Mycroft agrees, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers against his desktop. "I've invited you here to discuss your marriage to my brother."

"About which I was _completely_ \--"

"Yes, do spare me the specifics," Mycroft says, waving John off. "Do you intend to stay married?"

 

"I don't know," John says, and is surprised to realise it's the truth.

 

Mycroft leans forward, resting his chin on his folded hands. "I see." He's silent for a moment, pursing his lips, as though considering his words carefully. At last, he says only, "Doctor--John. Aside from me, you are the only person I trust with my brother's well-being, with his sobriety, and with his life."

When John speaks it's more an exhalation than a fully-formed word. "Oh."

"So you see, whatever the outcome of this--Portuguese mishap--I need you to stay in my brother's life, because there are times when I can't. Besides, well--you're the only person he'll listen to. I don't need to tell you that." At this, Mycroft Holmes nearly _laughs_. "When you think about last Monday."

John manages a small laugh himself. "He's an...extraordinary man with an extraordinary brain," he says. "Sometimes he just...needs a bit of talking down."

They sit in near-companionable silence for a moment, and Mycroft pours them both a cup of tea.

"Considering that brain of his, though, you'd think he spoke Portuguese fluently," John says, almost as an afterthought. "I mean, he does speak Spanish very well, and I know they're not mutually intelligible, but I did think they were near enough--"

"Is that what he told you?" Mycroft asks, very delicately replacing the creamer onto the silver platter. "Oh, no, Sherlock is perfectly fluent in Portuguese. It's Finnish that's his real trouble."

"Bloody _hell_ , Sherlock," John rages, and at that, excuses himself from his brother-in-law's company.

.:.

John barges in through the door of 221B, oblivious to the bang it creates, and to the stack of mail that goes flying off the entryway table, which wobbles dangerously before righting itself. He doesn't bother calling Sherlock's name; he hears him messing about in the living room and walks right in.

"You speak Portuguese," John says, his tone very calm for a man who is very pissed off. "Fluently."

"Ah. I wondered when you would have a conversation with that brother of mine. How is he?" Sherlock asks, looking up from a pile of case files from the Met.

"Oh, his usual rosy self. More importantly, _when_ , _exactly_ , were you planning on telling methat you were fully aware of that fact that we were _sodding married_?" The chair makes a scraping sound as he pulls it out, sitting down face to face with Sherlock at the table.

Sherlock says nothing.

"I mean, what _is_ this? Some sort of experiment? Some sort of _joke_? You wanted to see what domesticity would be like, so you picked the nearest option?"

"John, no. I assure you it was nothing like that." It's Sherlock's tone that calms John down.

"You've experimented on me before without my permission," John says, still angry. "Poisoned my tea, deliberately used me as bait during a case..." He trails off, unable to think of any more examples, though he knows there are plenty.

"I was always there with you, John. Nothing was going to happen to you when I was there." His eyes are searching, and when John meet his gaze, he has to turn away. He has gooseflesh. At some point, Sherlock placed his hand over John's--not even touching his, but hovering just so John could feel the warmth he radiated. It's too much.

He pulls his hand away. "I have to go out for a bit." He doesn't meet Sherlock's gaze again. He can't even say Sherlock's name. He stands and leaves the flat.

.:.

The fact that Sherlock virtually conned John into marrying him isn't what has him so upset.  John rethinks that statement: So it's only _half_ of what has him so upset. It's also the fact that Sherlock didn't even care to ask if John was interested in some sort of beginning, like a date. He just assumed, and jumped right in, as though whatever Sherlock wanted, John wanted, too. It's a very Sherlock thing to do. It's also a very aggravating thing to do. The two very often go hand-in-hand.

It isn't like John hasn't made his own efforts. He hasn't gone on a date in six months. He hasn't been _interested_ in going on a date in six months. He's made overtures about taking Sherlock out to dinner, which Sherlock almost always refused, because, "We're on a case, John," and when he _didn't_ refuse, he failed to realise that John was trying to, well, _woo_ him.

John has given up any pretense months ago. He's stopped loudly proclaiming his straightness in B&Bs and sometimes, even, in the middle of the street. He's let his fingers linger a bit too long over Sherlock's as they studied papers for a case. He's stayed up way too late with him, both of them drinking too much whisky, just to see what might happen.

But now they've shared a bed together. Intimacy makes things far more complicated, and he's finding it far more difficult to separate his feelings of vexation from his feelings of desire.

John Watson does something now that he has never done before. John Watson runs away. He makes it as far as Paddington Station (three stops) before he alights and goes right back to Baker Street like a bloody homing pigeon. Stupid. It was a stupid thing to do. Where was he going to go? To his mum's? To his _sister's_? No, there's nothing for it.

Unless. He sends a quick text: "Want to relive old times? Meet me at the Three Kings?"

Mike responds quickly. "You're on, mate. Did you know this was my day off or were you just born lucky?"

John laughs ruefully and picks up his pace. He's already going in the right direction, but he'll have to walk twice the distance Mike will. He's not surprised when he beats his friend there by a few minutes, anyway. He's already ordered his pint and is sitting in a quiet back corner, sun shining in through windows badly in need of a dusting, when Mike pokes his head in, grins, and waves. He joins John momentarily with his own drink.

"Two o'clock on a weekday, John? What's going on?"

Well, shit. Just...out with it, then? He hadn't prepared himself for that.

"I'm, uh--" he stops, rubbing his face with his hands, a laugh that isn't a laugh at all escaping his throat.

Mike puts his pint down. "Jesus. Is it serious?"

"Not unless you're me."

Mike's eyes are still wide, and John realises he's worrying his friend. "Sorry. Uh. Where to start?"

"Anywhere that suits," Mike replies, patting his friend on the arm.

John takes a few big gulps of his lager. "We were in Portugal last month," he starts.

"You and Sherlock? Or did you start up with that A&E nurse?" He nudges John with his elbow.

"If only. No, it was with Sherlock," he pauses, sucking the air in through his teeth. "And we ended up getting...thrown out of the country."

He focuses on his pint while Mike's raucous laughter fills the tiny, dusty place. "How _the hell_ do you get thrown out of Portugal? Teach me your ways."

"Oh, they weren't _my_ ways, or I'd still be lying on a beach somewhere. No, _someone_ went off on a spree with my gun. And got caught."

"Fuck's sake," Mike breathes.

"I know. Got hauled to the embassy, had to sign all these official documents. We're not allowed back in the country for three sodding years."

"You're lucky you didn't get thrown in the nick!" Mike's still laughing, but more quietly now.

John can't help but smile. God, he needs to laugh. "We would've done, if Sherlock's brother hadn't intervened."

"Oh yeah, the one that runs the bloody country?"

John nods, eyebrows raised. Mike doesn't know how close to the truth he is. "And I haven't even gotten to the best bit," he says. "But first, another pint?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks. But hurry up. I can't wait to hear this."

John orders a finger of whisky along with his lager, downing the whisky (he hopes) before Mike notices, letting it burn its way down as he returns to the table. He doesn't know if any amount of liquor is going to prepare either one of them for this next bit.

"Well," he says, feeling a bit better for wear (or worse, depending on the way you look at it). "Turns out one of these documents--and they're all in Portuguese, of course, but Sherlock's perfectly fluent--is..." Oh, Christ, he can't do it. He's come this close to unburdening himself, and he can't cross the finish line.

"Out with it. Quick, like pulling off a plaster. Best way," Mike advises.

"A marriage license. I signed a fucking marriage license. To Sherlock."

Mike sets down his glass. His hands are shaking. His eyes widen and his mouth drops. Yep, pretty much what John had been expecting. "It's only valid in Portugal, right?"

"Nope. It's perfectly legal in any country that recognises gay marriage."

"So you're married. To Sherlock. Right now."

"Yup."

Mike has about a third of a pint of beer left. It's gone in ten seconds flat. Wordlessly, he goes up to the bar and orders each of them a double whisky. They swirl their drinks around in their glasses before Mike starts laughing, hard. It isn't two seconds before John joins him, head bowed toward the table, laughter escaping his throat in wheezes.

"Oh, god," Mike realises. "I didn't even get to throw you a stag do." And they're doubled over again, Mike pounding his fist against his knee.

John claps his hand over his mouth to keep from annoying the two other patrons--elderly gentlemen playing chess.

"God," he says after he takes a generous swallow of the smoky liquid. "I'm married."

"To bloody Sherlock."

They sit in silence for a moment as it all, at last, sinks in.

"I think," John manages after a minute, "I think...I might _stay_ married. See...see how things go? I have a good--well, horrible--feeling about this. But good, too."

Mike smiles. "Good."

" _Good_?"

"Yeah, why not." Mike takes a swig of his drink. "It's good to have that kind of dynamic in your relationship."

"What? That I-never-know-if-I'm-going-to-be-tortured-to-death-by-Bosnian-gangsters kind of dynamic?" John's voice rises slightly.

"You've always had that with him. Nobody else. And you bloody  _love_ it," Mike says, finishing off his drink. He lowers his voice. "Fuck's sake, you _killed_ a man for him on the first day you met him. I'll let you ruminate on _that_ one while I get us another drink. Same again?"

John looks down at his whisky, nearly gone. "Yeah, all right."

While Mike's at the bar, John pulls out his phone, scrolls down to S: _You have to know that I've always wanted you._

No. Wrong, all wrong. He wants so many things, too many of them, all of them entirely too powerful. Delete. His head is spinning. Probably best to have done this before he was half-pissed. He tries again: _Thank you for giving me a little space. I'll be home in the morning._

Much better. Send.

He's surprised when there's no immediate reply. He's chatting amiably with Mike again when his phone buzzes.

 _No, you won't. You'll be home in the afternoon. You're always home in the afternoon after a night out with Mike._

John smiles fondly at his phone.

"You sap," Mike says, patting him on the arm.

After a few more, they lean on each other toward Mike's flat (it's closer, anyway) through the misty, lamp-lit streets. The spare bedroom is still made up from the last time John crashed there, so John kicks off his shoes, falls wrong-way into the bed, rolls a bit into the duvet, and is out for the rest of the night.

.:.

When he wakes, it's already nearly 11 o'clock and he smells coffee. Following the smell, he finds Mike in the kitchen, cooking eggs and bacon.

"It's not much of a fry-up, I'm afraid, though you'll find some bread in the freezer if you fancy toast."

John sets to work, toasting the bread and even managing to find a near-empty jar of jam near the back of Mike's empty fridge.

"Looks like our fridge," John comments. "Well, minus the horrifying scientific experiments. The bloody nuisance."

When Mike doesn't reply, John looks up and finds Mike standing there, spatula in hand, a ridiculous grin on his face.

"Christ, mate, you'll burn the lot!" John exclaims, grabbing the spatula and flipping everything over.

"Sorry," Mike, laughs, taking a step back, "sorry, it's just still so..."

John removes the frying pan from the heat, a million things running through his mind. They sit down to a quiet breakfast, until Mike asks, "What shall I get you for a wedding present?"

John throws the burnt edge of a piece of bacon at him. He helps Mike scrub up after breakfast and lingers over a second cup of coffee.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like, you know you are," Mike tells him. "But sooner or later..."

"I know, I know. I'm going to have to go home and face my husband." Saying it out loud makes it better. Saying it out loud makes it worse. He doesn't know what he's going to do when he gets to those steps.

.:.

He takes the long route home, wandering through St George's Garden, stopping into the British Museum, and through most of Marylebone. It's nearly two in the afternoon when he gets to Baker Street. His heart is racing. His shirt is sticking damply to him. He can't even think. He wants everything, he wants it all, but he doesn't know if he deserves it after running off like an idiot.

He opens the door and takes the steps one at a time. He hears Mrs Hudson come out of her flat, marigold gloves on.

"Oh, hello, John. I was wondering where you'd been."

"Stayed at a friend's last night. Why, anything wrong?"

"Well, Sherlock's not in." She takes off her gloves, one at a time, before continuing, "I hadn't heard anything for a day or so, and when I went up to check, he wasn't there. I thought perhaps the two of you had gone off on a case, but if you're here--?"

John's eyebrows furrow. "No, he'd have called me, or texted, or--" Wouldn't he? He takes the rest of the stairs two by two. "Sherlock?" He searches the front room, kitchen, bedroom, everywhere. "Sherlock?" Nothing.

He takes out his phone and sends a quick text: _Where are you?_

Thankfully, it pings back immediately:  _With Lestrade and Donovan. Series of break-ins._

  
 _Why didn't you tell me?_ He realises this probably comes across as possessive, but right now he doesn't care.

 _You were out._

 _Where are you exactly?_

Sherlock texts him an address in Maida Vale and he's off, catching the Tube the few stops it takes. Once there, it's only a few streets over. He sees Sherlock before Sherlock sees him, hair and coat billowing in the light breeze, his eyes bright and sharp even in the cloudy low-light.

All these years, all these goddamned _years_ , how had he been so oblivious? Mike was right. Sherlock is the only one who gives him that rush, those skipped heartbeats. All this time he'd thought the euphoria was down to coming up with theories; that the thrill was about catching suspects. And it i _s_. It just turned out that part of it--maybe a very big part of it--isn't.

He takes three big breaths, then finishes catching up to them at a normal pace, only hovering back a bit.

"What's up?"

"Three break-ins along this street," Lestrade says, pointing. "Same MO: window smashed in, valuables and cash taken."

"Teenagers," Sherlock says. "Same ones who did the break-ins in Kilburn last month, I guarantee you. So that's it, is it?" He rubs his hands together.

"Look, as much as some of us would like to swan in, solve everything in five seconds flat, and swan back out, there's all sort of shit _we_ still have to do," Donovan reminds him. "Speak to any witnesses, make a list of what's missing, fill out _endless_ amounts of paperwork--"

"And as much as I'd love say that I'd love to stay-- _that_  would be an enormous lie," Sherlock returns, puts his hands in his coat pockets, bids Lestrade goodbye, and is off. "John," he nods as he catches up to the doctor.

"Sherlock--" John starts, but realises he doesn't know _where_ to start. "I've been such a dick."

Sherlock turns to look at John with amusement. "You? No, John, I believe that title belongs to the man who conned you into marriage and failed to tell you anything about it."

"I don't mind," John says, surprised to hear the words tumbling out of his mouth. But if he's realised anything in the past few days, it's that he shouldn't be surprised by anything anymore. When Sherlock looks to him for clarification, he adds, "Being married. To you. I don't think I mind. In fact, I think it took that for me to realise there hasn't been anyone but you from day one."

They've stopped walking now, and Sherlock has a look on his face that John has never seen before. "John," he whispers, so softly.

"I know. I was...trying to date you, you know," John says, laughing.

Sherlock's eyes widen. "When?"

"That time we went to that posh new place." John picks up the pace again. It's chilly, and he wants to be home.

Sherlock blinks. "We were going out to dinner. We always go out to dinner."

"I _tried_ to _hold your hand_ ," John grits out.

"I thought it was a hapless attempt at finding your gloves," Sherlock says.

"What the _hell_ \--Sherlock, Jesus Christ. How long would this have gone on?"

"Not long," Sherlock says with a grin.

"You had plans up your sleeve?" John asks, and Sherlock nods. "Of course you did. You always have bleeding plans up your sleeve."

By now they've reached the front step, and John fumbles for his keys. Once inside, they shake off their jackets, shivering. Laughing quietly to each other, holding their fingers to their mouths, they tip-toe upstairs. They can hear Mrs Hudson humming as she folds her washing.

"It _is_ ," Sherlock says once they're safely upstairs, "just you. They all annoy me, even--" he pauses, looking down at Mrs Hudson's flat, "even the ones I like."

"I know. We're all bound to get on your nerves every now and--"

"No," Sherlock interrupts. "Not you, John. Them. You never--well, when you watch Eggheads it _is_ quite annoying--but it's only rarely that you ever do. Annoy me, that is. You know I prefer your presence to anyone else's."

"Ah," says John, rather satisfied with himself.

"Don't act pleased. You know it's true."

           

Fair enough. They sit down in unison on the couch. John takes the lead, because he isn't sure what Sherlock wants. He winds his fingers through Sherlock's, between them on the couch, and gently strokes his knuckles, especially the small scar over one of them. One day he'll ask Sherlock where that scar came from. One day he'll map Sherlock's body and ask him where every single mark came from. Today isn't that day.

 

Sherlock looks, first down at their entwined hands, then up at John's face. "God, I need you," he breathes, but doesn't have to, because his mouth is on John's and they're kissing, awkwardly at first, chins and noses bumping, laughter escaping into each others' mouths. Soon enough, they find a rhythm of lips and tongues, kissing deep and long and slow. They've wasted so much time; John isn't willing to waste another second. John kisses him, kisses him, kisses him. It might never be enough.

 

John knows he has to be the one to stop this, because if he doesn't, he might go too far and ruin everything. And if he did that... No, he can't imagine a life without Sherlock in it. And if that means he's going to have to pull himself off three times a day (and he probably will) before Sherlock is ready, then that's what he's going to do. God fucking help him.

 

John pulls back after another minute, pressing chaste kisses to each of Sherlock's eyelids, and to his temple.

 

Sherlock's eyes flutter open. "John--?"

 

"You can't come to my bed again--" he starts, and Sherlock's face starts to fall before John even has time to finish. "Not until you're ready."

 

"Oh," Sherlock says, eyes widening in recognition. There's a glimmer in them reserved only for certain revelations. "I've got news for you, Dr Watson. You're not going to be waiting nearly as long as you think."

 

With that, Sherlock Holmes leaves John Watson sitting on their couch, half-hard, madly in love with a madman, just around the bend from forty, mind reeling with a million possibilities: each and every one of them glorious.

 

.:. 


End file.
